The Reason for the Unreason
by Archea
Summary: Various Lestrade/Sherlock ficlets, posted on my LiveJournal in answer to various prompts. Mostly fluff and humour, rated PG to PG-13. Updated 14 Of Greys and Griefs
1. Manacled

**Disclaimer **: Sherlock etc. etc. MM. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, Thompson. Archea etc. etc. fun and feedback.

**A/N **: A series of Lestrade/Sherlock ficlets posted on my LiveJournal in answer to various prompts. Title and quote courtesy of Cervantes.

**The Reason for the Unreason**

_The reason for the unreason with which you treat my reason so weakens my reason that with reason I blame your natural charms._

**1. Manacled**

**Prompt** : Hand-wooing

**Rating** : PG-13

This is something done in a slip of the - mind? Nah, scratch that. Mind is Sherlock's realm, undisputed till Lestrade pushes himself into this pristine land, hard naked and breathing hard, moulding Sherlock's thighs to the bend of his hips, and Sherlock abdicates for an hour.

Slip of the heart, then. Call it that, once they're done and spent, every glass pane dawnescent around them and Sherlock's black hair still pooling amid the paperwork (some of which he'll use nonchalantly to clean them). Oh, how heart slips at the sight, beating amiss, and Greg's hand with it as it lands on Sherlock's in their brief afterglow.

Hand on hand, palm to back if Sherlock is still clutching the desk sides, their – how to call them? Intervals. Night shifts. Closed cases. Whatever they are to Sherlock, Greg entwines their fingers, encompassing every slender metacarpal with his own flesh and sweat, and presses his mouth to the side of Sherlock's neck, once, before releasing him.

Slippery fingers, moist with effort, their own strength giving away how much Sherlock has a hold on him. Others use handcuffs in bed - the best-worn joke among the force – but this hand-wooing is the best he can do. It is enough that he is allowed the gesture, something to be taken home as the sky whitens under the first press of day. While he wonders if Sherlock's memories (junkie's leaf thin hand shaking in his clutch) have deleted the warmth that kept this, their brief encounters, alive from the first.

He knows he cannot expect anything else, but he will not settle for anything less.

And thus he is rather taken by surprise when, two days later, Sherlock takes his hand while reminding Anderson that DNA in his case really stands for Diminished Neuronal Array, and carelessly interweaves their fingers. Lestrade's reflex is to take his back but Sherlock is putting every nerve and tendon into the grasp, toned up by five years of incessant texting.

Lestrade gives up and concentrates on keeping the blood tide away from his face - with a little help from his fickle libido.

(Sadly, fortunately, his field manager choses this same moment to bring him Budget's latest sweet ticket on expenditure cuts, to be read, glossed, signed and returned by yesterday morning. Ah, well. He's not adverse to another night of desk duty, all things considered.)


	2. Facing the Facts

**2. Facing the Facts**

**Rating **: PG

**Prompt **: Physiognonomy

"Oh, is this a belated version of Spring cleaning?" Sherlock huffed, closing the office door behind him with a perfunctory glance at the floor. He stooped to pick up the nearest piece of evidence, a garish-looking magazine, holding it between thumb and finger.

"Hmm. Unless you've undergone a recent conversion of the heart, Lestrade, my data need upgrading. _Married nymphet hookers_, really?" His tone was light, but Lestrade's ear quickened to the touch of resentment.

"Don't be daft." Lestrade snatched up the magazine and threw it on the increasingly shapeless heap on his desk. "_Some_ people around here have taken to using the Property Room as a not-so-private stash and it's no use issuing a caution. Or two, or twenty. Might as well be pissing into a violin, as Mémé Lestrade used to say." Sherlock's horrified gasp went unheeded. "So I'm taking some strong action. Here, make yourself useful and check these books, they need to be sorted. Charities, libraries, the bin – your call. And keep your gloves on, sunshine, some of them have gone undercover with the dust."

"Your consultant, _dear_, not your housekeeper." Sherlock drew himself up, five feet eight of scorching dismissal - then spotted an ancient leather binding among the pile and underwent instant deflation. The next fifteen minutes were spent in something oddly akin to domestic peace, or so Lestrade thought as he sorted out the junk, muttering about cleanliness and godliness and wait a sec, was that his name on the sodding Ken doll, while Sherlock, sitting cross-legged on the floor, skimmed through the books in thoughtful silence.

"Was one of your predecessors into physiognomy?" he asked after a while.

"Eh?" Lestrade was staring wistfully at a half empty pack of Silk Cuts. He girded his lungs and tossed it into the bin.

"Physiognomy, the science of facial interpretation." Sherlock flipped through a few pages and began to read. "_When the nose is long and of a clear color, the person is gifted with powers of the mind and a capacity to enjoy that power_. Hmm. That's a tautology – who wouldn't enjoy having a powerful mind? Apart from Anderson, who'd probably mistake it for a breakfast cereal gift. _When it is very long, he is shameless. If it is small and slightly rounded, he is religious-minded and kind hearted_."

Lestrade found himself squinting down his nose. "Oh, bosh. Nosy is as nosy does - you'd be just the same busybody with a smaller conk."

"And they're pointers to the specimen's degree of sexual vigour, it seems. Fascinating."

"Rubbish," Lestrade repeated with accrued warmth, rubbing his nose absently.

"Ah, here's the entry on chins and mouths. Let's see... _Thin lips are indicative of a repressed nature, one that is either prone to meanness of heart or misanthropic defiance. A thin-lipped man will often show excessive bashfulness, sensual timidity, reduced empathy with_ —"

The open book took a belly-flop to the floor as Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's elbows, hauled him upon his knees and sealed his own mouth to his consultant's lips. They parted, perhaps for a Sherlockian retort, so Lestrade pressed his advantage recklessly, adding warmth and a firm show of tongue until he had Sherlock wheezing for breath and clutching at his cheeks simultaneously.

Lestrade pushed him away, retrieved the book, tossed it into the large bin bag lying at their foot and pinned the bag down with a glare.

Sherlock's throat-rasping pulled him down from his revengeful high. "Ah. Erm. The author may well have been... overly deterministic in his assumptions."

"Right you are. In English, now?"

Sherlock sighed. "You, Detective Inspector Lestrade, are a mean kisser. Though scientific hypotheses should always, hmm. Be double-tested for safety."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? Then you'd better get back to work double-quick, sweetheart. The faster we're done here, the faster I can drive us home to check that nosey malarkey in context."

He waited to see if Sherlock would comment on his mangled grammar. Instead, the younger man grabbed a handful of books and began to flip through the pages hastily. Lestrade chuckled and, turning back to his desk, flicked the Ken doll's cute pink nose for good measure before he lifted the pile of magazines and made for the door.


	3. Una Furtiva Lagrima

**3. Una Furtiva Lagrima**

**Rating **: PG

**Prompt** : Write anything you want, provided you don't use the letter e.

Admit it, you would think of coitus as you thought of maths – body adding to body, that is, with a sum's trim clarity.

Until you found that sums blur at morning's first intimation, and body slops into bathroom for a wash or a post-shag fag. _Dullissimus_. Body asks again and you say No, will not do, and pat on No body sobs, body damns, and how to think at all in this hoo-ha is a conundrum of its own.

Uni days, you vowing to shag drugs for clarity. Bright boy.

Body's payback had you stop and think. Body still a fact, sadly. But you know how to curb facts to your will and could soon nod at your mirror proudly. This was a body to your liking – quick, angular, strong – a fit shadow for your brilliant mind.

That was six months ago.

Tonight you sit in a dim-lit front row and watch him watch Alagna sing _Una Furtiva Lagrima_. Music is hardly his strong suit, as you know –that fond 'all right' was for you, to humour you. Ah, but look at him now. Look, until your lungs grow tight. Crying without a sound, both crying and smiling, though Italian is a shut book to him. Why? You try, but tonight you fail at divination. What lost imprint of joy and sorrow is surfacing again in him, at Alagna's soft vibrato, you cannot, shall not know.

A patch of warmth on your thigh. His hand.

Admit it, you would think of attraction as you thought of music – that it took a body lissom and violin-taut for yours to hum its part along (until you said No to Victor). Now you look at your companion – man of brown and gray, aging man, no whip-sharp contour about him. But smiling straight at you, not shying away as your curious lips touch salt.

Stooping into dark warmth, you know that you'll sustain a cramp tomorrow. Unimportant. As long as that song unfolds, you will not shift your mouth.


	4. Boys' Night Out

**Boys' Night Out**

**Rating **: PG

**Prompt** : Lestrade receives a compliment from Sherlock.

"He never."

" 'Course he did. I may be dumb, Greg, but I'm hardly deaf - no thanks to the bloody M4s."

"Could be you're dumb drunk. There's no possible way on earth —."

"Ha. Like I'm the one whose elbow is currently chatting up the burger sauce."

"... Yeah, well. Could be His Holmeness was actually praising you."

"To myself? In the third person? How likely is that?"

" ..."

"..."

"... Say it again? In context, please."

"All right, but next round's on you."

"Deal. Better get myself properly binged if I'm to buy this, anyway. So?"

"So. Late Sunday brunch, eggs and bacon, sun pouring in from the kitchen window, Mrs Hudson cavorting downstairs to "Twist and Shout" – must remember to check these new Yin Yang Yogurts of her by the - "

"Damnit, John!"

"You want atmosphere, Inspector, you're getting atmosphere. Sherlock experimenting on acid crystals —"

"You - you're letting him - you - no wonder he - fucking hell, John! D'you have any idea how long it took me to —"

"Wha'? Oh, you idiot. Not that sort of acid!"

"..."

"Yep, sir. So he wasn't speaking under the influence either."

"Just – get on with it."

"Ay ay. So I say,"Come and have a bite, Sherlock, these are jolly good eggs." You know, encouraging transport on Sundays like any civic-minded Londoner. And Sherlock looks at me, all very unfocused and far far away, and suddenly he says, "He's a good man —"

"As in, "he's a good egg". Got it."

"— and some day, if we're very, very patient because he's a king-sized drama queen when it comes to self-esteem —"

"You're making that up."

"Not undeservedly."

"John. Please."

" 'He's a good man, and one day I shall see to it that he becomes a great one.' "

"..."

"..."

"He never."

" 'Course he — wait, was that your phone or mine?"

_Yes I did. Now get a cab before I change my mind to your and the British public's detriment. SH_

"..."

"..."

"Can I have the bill, Miss?"


	5. Dear Jim

**Dear Jim**

**Rating : **PG

**Prompt** : "Dear Jim, The man I've been in love with for five years just got himself a new flatmate. Can you fix it for me that he'll never ever depend on anyone else but me? GL" Take it from here, author !

**Spoilers** for all of S1. Written before/not compliant with the BBC denouement for _The Great Game_.

Dear Jim,

No, the drugs bust did not scare him off – fact is, my Sergeant shooed us out before he had a chance to see the goods. Not that he'd have been much impressed. I mean, seriously, _betel nuts_? Try again.

GL

* * *

Dear Jim,

What do you mean, you're keeping the gun? You can't keep the bleeding gun! How am I supposed to arrest this bloke without evidence? And before you ask, no, I'm bloody not injecting truth serum into their dim sums. I'm hardly in a mood to listen to them rhapsodizing on their wretched little bromance until the fortune cookie crumbles.

I hope I'm paying a fixed rate for this.

GL

* * *

Dear Jim,

Congrats on the Chinese job. Kidnapping Watson's girlie and offering to off her with an effing great crossbow was Naughty Plan of the Year to make sure he keeps his hands off Sherlock.

Remind me why I'm hiring you?

GL

* * *

Dear Jim,

Yeah, the Dastardly Domestic Device was one grand idea. Unfortunately, it was Watson who walked out of the flat. Can I trouble you from now on to fix my love dilemma without blowing up my love interest?

No bloody thanks.

GL

* * *

Dear Jim,

I appreciate the trouble you're going through, but. From man to man. _Setting him up with Kenny Prince?_ Have you seen the guy at all? I'd sooner date my dog. Hell, I'd sooner date my sniffer dog, and that's saying a lot.

Get a move on, man! Only two pips to go, in case you've lost count.

GL

* * *

Dear Jim,

Oh, the Granny Gambit paid off all right. Watson texted me in a huff, then dragged me to the George where I stood him a bitter to keep him in the mood while he jabbered about Sherlock's antics du jour, including the "Jim from IT" interlude. Gave me the little punk's number, which he'd memorized, and asked if I could track it down for him. Don't think I'll bother the ID squad, though – as it is, it looks quite familiar to me.

Seller's remorse, Jim? Never a good idea.

GL

I'll forgive and forget this once and send you back Moran. Nice wig, by the way. Nice Czech accent. Sad lack of practice with high heels.

* * *

Dear Jim,

Sure, I'll fix it for you to get a good lawyer. Least I can do, mate - having three fine lads depend upon me is doing wonders for my heart and ego. Never felt chirpier in my life.

Yeah, I'm afraid Seb is for keeps now. You see, finding out about his little hair fetish came in quite handy before I sent him back to you: your black vaseline isn't a patch on L'Oréal's silver shampoo. He's one of the gang now - he and John have taken to each other like a gun on fire. They've renamed John's blog "The Semtex Pistols" and tripled the readership.

Sherlock sends his greetings, too. Or would if his mouth was not otherwise occupied. Quite the lip-giver, is our Sherlock. It took him some time to figure out why I'd taken a dot for him and survived, and when he did, all he said was "I knew it" and "Do that thing with your thumb again".

So we're all up and coming through your good offices, Jimmy-Son, and hoping you enjoy your new jumpsuit. Mrs Hudson says orange will pep up your water chakras, but be sure to remember it clashes with turquoise.

Cheers,

GL


	6. Latin Lover

**Latin Lover**

**Rating : **PG

**Prompt **: Sherlock propositions Lestrade in Latin.

Later on, Lestrade will be adamant in his view that Sherlock must have consulted Mycroft. Sherlock's knowledge of Latin, he'll claim, is probably limited to "post-mortem" and "alibi" and "cui bono" (yeah, he knows that one, had it pretty much clubbed into him after all the court sessions), and there's no way on earth he could have pulled his little stunt without Holmes major's help.

Sherlock will scoff and counter that while Holmes minor ("he says so himself!") used to believe that "age quod agis" meant "Aggie cooked the haggis", it pertains to logic that he (Sherlock) should be attracted to a dead language. And that if Lestrade is quite done with his non sequiturs, he (Sherlock) would appreciate a clear answer to his perfectly simple question.

Lestrade will make a show of rubbing a world-weary hand over his face. "Remind me what the simple question was?"

* * *

The question is "_Visne me in cubitum ducere?_". As far as Lestrade can tell, it could mean anything from "Hand me my phone?" to "And why, pray, can't I take the corpse home to meet Mummy?"

Unfortunately, the only person in his entourage with a smattering of Latin is Anderson, who is muttering "cubitus, cubitus, oh yes of course" and pointing at the corpse's arm proudly. Damn Anderson for always wanting to impress Sherlock with his command of foreign idioms, and damn Sherlock for always choosing a public venue when he feels the need to embarrass Lestrade. Not that Lestrade is embarrassed - he's heard worse from Sherlock, both in public and private circumstances - but it's already past four, goddamnit, and rigor mortis waits for no one, not even a polyglot genius.

He's about to raise his voice when Sherlock mutters "you won't, then", shoves his hands into his coat pockets and slips out of the room, his coat-tails limp and lifeless.

Everyone stares at Lestrade - Anderson excepted, who is flexing a cramp after pointing too long at the corpse's arm.

Lestrade closes his mouth, signals to Donovan to take over, and rushes out after Sherlock. Who is already halfway into a cab when the DI pulls him back. "Care to explain what the hell that was about?" Lestrade yells over the mid-morning traffic.

"John said I wasn't to ask in medias res!" Sherlock shrieks back. "That I had to try and be a little tactful for once, and find a way of letting you know indirectly, and that texting wasn't an option! Well I did, and don't tell me you didn't get it, any fool would have understood!"

"Understood what?" Lestrade fairly bawls. Sherlock still has one foot inside the cab, and the driver is looking at the two of them as if the late Jeff Hope had just found a spiritual heir.

"That I want you to take me to bed!" Sherlock roars. This when there's a sudden lull in the ongoing brouhaha of traffic and everyone, including Greg's DCI who is stepping out of her own taxi, can testify that his interlocutor spoke crystal clear English this time.

Lestrade takes one glance at the scene, remembers Bonaparte's motto that in love, flight is the only victory, and pushes Sherlock's shoulders firmly back inside the cab.

* * *

"_Visne me in matrimonium ducere?"_ Sherlock will (later on) repeat docilely enough, his head curled into the dip of Lestrade's neck, one arm curved in a smooth arc to nick the lighted cigarette from his bedfellow's mouth.

"Matri - oi! Hold on, that wasn't the word at all!" Greg will retort, though too blissful post coitum to do more than scratch gently at Sherlock's recumbent nape.

There will be no answer except a contented snort - though how Sherlock, of all human creatures, can smoke in his sleep without choking to death or setting himself on fire is another enigma. Meanwhile there are six texts waiting on Greg's mobile - Anderson's Latin, it seems, has finally proved up to par - and the sharp pat of an umbrella tip on his rugless stairs.

Too late, mate: _consummatum est_, Greg thinks wickedly, and strokes Sherlock's nape again.

FINIS

[A/N: _Visne me in cubitum ducere_ : Will you take me to bed? Anderson's mistake comes from his interpreting cubitus (bed) as the cubitus bone in the human arm.

_Visne me in matrimonium ducere_: Will you marry me (lit. lead me into matrimony)?]


	7. News of Great Joy

**News of Great Joy**

**Rating : **PG

**Prompt **: Sherlock, Lestrade and Christmas Carols. The poem recited by Father Mulligan is Carol Ann Duffy's _Bee Carol_.

"Ah, Gregory." Young Father Mulligan, who in former days would have been dubbed a first-class specimen of muscular Christianity, squeezed Lestrade's shoulder with iron gusto as the latter stepped into the nave. "Good to see you here, the men's voices could do with some back-up... Ah, Simon, Letty, how are you tonight... though Miss Gunnings here has bravely volunteered to – ah, Michael – join the basses."

"Ah, Padre," Lestrade said for lack of a better rejoinder, accepting Miss Gunnings' proferred hand and the program that came with it.

"It's the mulled wine." Miss Gunnings, who sported seven feet two of churchly devotion and usually cast herself as Herod in the Nativity Play, beamed down on the two men. "Tips me down an octave, that it does. Nothing like cloves and brandy to bring out the oomph."

"Indeed, indeed. Ah, Mrs Henessy, you've brought your husband, how nice. You know Detective Inspector Lestrade? We're lucky he's off duty – until we take it into our heads to massacre Purcell, eh, Inspector?"

Lestrade did his best to rally an oomphy smile. Well, he'd hoped to bring someone too for their Carol Evening – had, in fact, felt a tender pang at the thought of showing Sherlock his little church, now filled with enough candles to light them to Babylon and back again. It didn't matter that Sherlock's creed was limited to his own synapses; in Lestrade's somewhat Jesuitic estimation, they were both acquainted with faith – the taut blind trust that there was something out there, immovable, out of scope yet accessible through roads strange and obscure, with no small effort on their part and, now and then, a chance grace crossing their paths.

It came down to faith in truth, truth by any other name and to each their own, and Lestrade had felt ready to entrust his lover with this part of himself, come what may of the experience.

But when he had mustered up his guts and sent Sherlock a text asking if he'd like to hear some old music with a little group of people, share a hot drink perhaps, stop on their return walk to check on the stars, there had been no answer. Why had he even believed there might be one? Sherlock did not do people. Still, Lestrade checked his phone, surreptitiously, only turning it off when Father Mulligan tried the altar mike with a cautious rat-tat.

After the usual greetings and encouragement for everyone to join the mirth, they all launched forth on Silent Night. The words hailed back to a world of past senses, the warm damp scent of his mother's winter cape against his cheek; the rough lilt of his father's voice, never shaking off its Dorset burr even after he'd moved his family and prospects to London. The herbed batter pudding, his Gran mixing a spoonful of snow into the milk every year for tradition's sake. Lestrade, who had been peering up at the red stained window over him – the Slaughter of the Innocent, so much for a change of scene – closed his eyes and let the cluster of voices rock him gently between past and present. The carols were sung or spoken in the case of more recent poems. He winced at Good King Wenceslas, remembering another Wenceslas and a duet questioning in his office that had led to Sherlock snatching the pen from his hand once the lady, still protesting too much, had been led away, to kiss Greg's lips hard and long. That had been their beginining; was this the end, because Sherlock had once more declined to follow in Lestrade's footsteps?

But there was the Sussex carol, his favorite, and he thought he could trust his voice enough to join in. His lungs too, now he'd taken the pledge and patch. Cautiously, his eyes still shut, he let himself be pulled in by the billowing tide of sounds.

_On Christmas night all Christian sing_

_To hear what news the angels bring..._

His memory jammed; he tumbled to a halt as his neighbour's voice, deep and strong, carried on the song.

_News of great joy, news of great mirth,_

_I've caught you a serial killing nurse._

Lestrade's eyes snapped open in time to see several heads turn sharply to their row. Sherlock was standing next to him, his face a study in discrete mirth as he brushed down the half-melting snow from his coat and pulled off his gloves. He gave Miss Gunnings his patented roguish wink, to which she, astoundingly, responded in kind, and took Lestrade's hand in his.

"How did you –", Lestrade began, but the next verse was already rolling on.

Then why should men on earth be so sad...

He could feel Sherlock's hand warming to flesh under his touch. It held all the answers, Lestrade thought, more than Sherlock's mind ever would tonight. He squeezed it back.

_Since Our Redeemer made us glad._

_Had to run from Croydon, traffic's rough_

_And you'd just turned your mobile off._

More heads turned to their aisle. Father Mulligan's arm rose in its snow-white sleeve, visibly intent on bringing the song to a pause and castigating the newcomer's aplomb – then thought better of it. Bless the ould alliance between Law and Church, Greg thought dizzily. Or Sherlock's silky baritone, buttressing the men's voices most oomphily.

Then out of darkness we see light, Lestrade threw his voice in again. They did. And would, one way or another, even if their way was crooked in the eyes of men on so many accounts. He lifted their twined hands to his lips and kissed Sherlock's knuckles as the carol slowed down to its silver, fluent end.

_Glory to God and peace to men_

_Both now and evermore. Amen._

Father Mulligan led the song to its rest, allowing it to blend into soft-edged silence before he spoke again. "We've sung of terror and peace, and darkness and liberty," he said quietly. "These are words of import, and to some of us" – his eyes met Lestrade's under the red stained window – "they may speak more urgently than to others. But they're a little abstract all the same. So I'll just read out a last carol, by a lady whose name, in fact, happens to be Carol. It begins with a garden in winter."

He cleared his throat. Lestrade lent an absent ear to the first stanza, then stole a glance aside, worried that Sherlock might grow impatient at what sounded like an elegant nursery's rhyme. But Sherlock was sitting upright, eyes to the priest, a study in rapt attention.

_Bring me for my Christmas gift_

_a single golden jar ;_

_let me taste the sweetness there,_

_but honey leave_

_to feed the winter cluster of the bees._

Then the evening was over, ushering them into a not so silent night as the parishioners lingered in happy murmurous knots and Sherlock pulled him by the hand to where Father Mulligan stood.

"Ah, Mr —"

"Padre, this is Sherlock Holmes. My – partner." Yes, it seemed the only appropriate word in the end. "Sherlock, this is Father Mulligan."

"Welcome to our church, Mr Holmes. I'm glad you could make it despite the, er, seasonal traffic jams."

Sherlock leant forward, his gaze a pool of argent clarity under the moon. Father Mulligan gazed back, mesmerized, while Lestrade gave his lover a cautionary pinch. Now was not a good time to deduce that the Bishop was really a father of five, or Miss Gunnings a closet kleptomaniac who dipped her knitting needles in Dove liquid soap to pilfer the collection boxes.

"How can they still make honey if they're flightless and the garden is locked in ice?" Sherlock asked eagerly. "Do they stack pollen before they hibernate? Or invent a substitute chemical, like a scented hormone? Do they have endocrine glands, Padre?"

Lestrade blinked. Father Mulligan, a more dependable soul-reader, smiled.

"The bees in the Bee Carol? Ah, you'll have to ask Ms Duffy, I'm afraid: I'm a hardcore Londoner myself. But there must be an answer – the Bible has them make honey in the cleft of rocks, so I dare say nothing's past their minds."

Or Sherlock's, Lestrade thought as they walked out into the street. Match made in heaven, that. And his own mind was drifting back to that Dorset village, a creased memory now, and the line-up of hives under his grandmother's garden wall. Would they still be there, gleaming like small igloos under their coat of frost? His Ma would know when he called on the 25th.

"Or you could take Boxing Day off, too," a voice said at his side.

Let me taste the sweetness there. "Yes," Lestrade said simply, and stopped to raise his face, not to the cold edge of wind or the black holes between the stars, but to the blessing of Sherlock's touch – confident in his faith that, year in year out, in terror as in peace, it would be there for him.


	8. Seven Poems

**Seven Poems**

_A series of pastiches written to cheer a friend at work. The original works are mentioned at the end._

1. For God's sake shut your gob and let me love,

Or cod my IQ, or my team,

My grizzled hair or ruin'd self-esteem,

The impossible state, tell me that you'll improve,

Get you a job, find you a wife,

Observe your brother, improve your life,

Say what-fucking-not and, Jesus, I'll approve

So you will let me love.

(Original work : John Donne, _The Canonization_)

* * *

2. Look, sunshine, just snuggle under my arm

'Coz I got news for you: I suck and you're human.

Neither getting a day younger, and even you,

You wonder, you one-of-a-kind, you hotshot,

You'll get burnt out come midnight, same as us yokels.

Least I can do is hold you through the night,

The limp warm sum of breathing, living you,

Fucked-up and dieable, but to me

Beautiful. Yeah, beautiful. Full stop.

(Original work : W. H. Auden, _Lay your sleeping head, my love_)

* * *

3. It is a young noseyparker

And he stoppeth one of three.

"Look, son, you're clearly a doper

Why don't you just leave off?

* * *

There's a crime scene a mile wide

And me one of the VIPs.

The corpse is set, the SOCOs met,

I've no time for social niceties."

* * *

He holds him with his skinny hand,

"There was a clue," quoth he.

"Jesus! What part of "not in the gang"...?"

The DI's hand falls limp.

* * *

He holds him with his glittering eye –

And Greg Lestrade stands still.

One thing he learnt as a DI:

If you can't lick'em, join'em.

* * *

Might as well sit his arse for a lull

And the most f*cked-up tale ever:

Who knew a bloody big seagull

Could spawn a homicidal spree?

* * *

The Inspector sat with the nerd,

Having no choice really;

But in the end he caught the bird

And shagged the informant.

(Original work : S. Coleridge, _The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner_)

* * *

4. (Bold characters stand for crossed-out words here)

Twinkle twinkle little sleuth,

How I wonder when you deduce.

Up above us **in** on a high,

**Lucy in the** Like a diamond in the sky!

* * *

When the good ol' sun is gone

(Just teasing you here, "sunny")

Then your brain goes all-alight

Twinkle twinkle all the night.

* * *

And us plodders in the dark

Thank you for your little spark.

Couldn't see which way to go

If you did not twinkle so.

(Original work : _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_)

* * *

5. Fact is, a sunrise in Dorset is a thing of magic.

It's like – well, the sun makes the hills stretch off

And the grass green up, like it gives them a kick,

Or a nice morning snog. It's chemistry. Sort of.

But then... one day, the clouds will resurface

And it's goodbye sunshine. Goodbye Sunshine.

And you never see that hard radiant face

Again, 'coz it's gone west in blood and brine.

Day starts like any day, any him-on-fire

And you all set out for your day in the sun,

And the next thing you know, he's a fraud, a liar,

A headline in The Sun. But whatever he's done,

He's still your all, your wall, your east, your fallen star.

(Original work : W. Shakespeare, Sonnet 33)

* * *

6. When you are old and grey, same as yours truly,

And "on fire" means "forty-winks at the hearth

With the Universalis", and you go, "How on earth

Can I need spectacles, it's not like I can't see"

* * *

Not daring to say yet, "Not like I still observe"

The way you did when the crowds clapped you on,

When you had it all, the looks, the vim, the nerve,

And I alone loved the sinner in you - not the icon.

* * *

Then I'll bend down, you lazy sod, stoke the fire

So it can murmur the wisdom of the bee,

Telling a blind tosser that some of us retire

From everything but love. Now go fetch us tea.

(Original : W. B. Yeats, _When you are old and grey_)

* * *

7. There was a DI in a Yard

Whose hair turned a suave lyard.

"Little grey cells! At last!"

Cried a genius unsurpassed,

And as a reward kissed him long and hard.

(Original work : Edward Lear's _Limericks_)


	9. What's in a Name

**What's in a Name**

**Prompt** : Sherlock suggests a name for a baby.

**Rating**: PG-13

**Warning** : mpreg (nothing graphic)

"Morgana, obviously."

"What?"

Sherlock's hand is resting over Greg's stomach, lifting now and then for an occasional pat which Greg suspects is half seal of approval and half Sherlock testing for their minute daughter's knee-reflex. All in all, it's endearing enough for Greg to refrain from telling him that they'll have to wait another week or two before knowing if she's going to be a Beckham or a Donovan.

What is less endearing is Sherlock's evident certainty that their child should be called after a woman who, if his memory serves him right, was a witch, a serial adulterer, and a busybody whose political mayhem would make Irene Adler fall to her knees and beg for a tutorial. Twice.

"Because it's the logical answer that will save us precious time." The pats are getting brisker. "For one thing, every elder child in my family is bestowed a M- name."

"Your dad said I was to call him Zed."

His first interview with Professor Holmes was a pleasant surprise - the stocky, seven-foot world expert on natural energies had looked him up and down, enfolded him into a bear-hug, boomed out an atrocious pun on sons-in-law-and-order, and fetched him an A1 scotch which Greg had regretfully declined.

"Short for Melchizedek. I think Mother made him delete most of it."

"Yeah? Well, every Lestrade kid gets a one-syllable name. How about that, genius?"

"_Your_ father told me to call him Richard."

"Yeah, Da wasn't too happy with my Gran's choice either."

Sherlock nuzzles his forehead against Greg's shoulder. Greg braces himself mentally: the cat-like approach works only too well as a rule.

"And then, think of the memento."

"Of...?"

"Well. We did conceive her in St Barts'..."

"Oh, dear Christ. The poor kid doesn't need to know about that!"

"We don't have to tell her immediately. If I recall, Mother did wait until I was five."

"Sherlock, _I_ don't need-"

"The partial solar eclipse, April 1976."

"... Oh."

"And since Moriarty was actually responsible for bringing us together -"

"By forcing you to enact the worst, piss-poorest, trashiest corpse in the history of frauds? You totally deserved that slap, by the way."

(Though Molly now keeps a nervous vigil near the bench every time he comes over to check on a post-mortem.)

"- it would be a happy coincidence that our child should be named after him. Partly, that is."

"Sherlock."

"Pleaaase?" By now, Sherlock's lower tones have plummeted to a cross between cocoa butter and a rutting cello.

"We'll see," Greg says even as Sherlock's breath warms up against his ear, and a Conradian shudder trickles down his spine. _The hormones! The hormones!_ He is a lost man if Sherlock goes for the hormones. But Sherlock's hand is curling round the nascent belly curve, then lower, lower, and Greg's last lucid thought is that he must really, in his child's best interests, nominate John Watson as a godfather.


	10. That Which We Call a Rose

**That Which We Call a Rose**

_Sequel to the previous. Same rating, same warning for mpreg (nothing very graphic) and some language._

" 'Tis all the curry's fault," Lestrade repeats doggedly, and has to bite on his breath as the next contraction tips him forward. Sweet Jesus on toast with marmite. To think of all the things he's done on that very chair, with or sans his feet up the desk, with or sans Sherlock's long form pretzelled around the back. Eaten, slept, wept, crashed down – loved.

And now entered labour.

"Curry, my sainted balls." Gregson, pressing back on his shoulders none too gently. "Look at you, nine months gone and looking like you swallowed Arsenal's signature ball, what business d'you have in here? Shh, save your breath. Yeah, Sal got yours, didn't text back because she's out in some arsepocket in Hackney, arresting that bloke. Well, twin. Hope for your sake Holmes deduced the right one."

From where he sits, Greg can spot John and Anderson, both flush-faced from the heat of their ongoing debate and, in Doctor Watson's case, a little extra incentive. They don't seem to have made much progress since John waddled in from his night out with a hearty "God, I'm _so_ pissed. Where's the gravid dad?" Now Anderson is waving his arms, abject horror written all down his long face, mumbling that he never volunteered for this.

"Of course I've got the right man. Greg, your DCI says congratulations, and not to forget the health insurance form..."

Ah. The office door has now swung open on the tall, dark, _pink_ form of the other expectant father. Who, sensing that Anderson might, after all, be his coworker for that night, has taken compromise to an unheard-of level by consenting to don a plastic head cap. You do the crime, love, you gotta do the time, Lestrade thinks with a hissy chuckle that draws everyone's attention back to him. Drat.

"... and registering form, and there's one for paid parental leave, and the Met's childcare options, and..."

"Attention, please! Will everyone in the force kindly step back, we're going for a peridural." John, it seems, is enjoying much too much his role as Anderson's executive coach. Judging from Anderson's face, it is obvious that he's only doing this so he can order Sherlock about.

"Oh," Sherlock is murmuring, his voice an oblivious hum as he drops the paperwork and bends over Greg's belly. "You have a coffee-bean navel!"

... Well, it was _fairly_ dark in the Morgue that day. And Sherlock prefers to do it by night, so Greg swallows the tease and smiles up at him instead.

What seems like hours later, he is still smiling between two howls. Sherlock has taken to counting prime numbers aloud and backward from 971, though whether to give Greg a new focus or quench his own panick is unclear. Someone's brewing coffee in Donovan's office and the smell is unexpected support, though he suspects he will pay for it dearly once his girl is born.

C'mon love, he wills himself to think, and feels Sherlock's hand tighten over and around his, echoing his call. We need to part, you and I, so he can see you. C'mon, sweetheart. I'm sure you got his legs, too. Give us a kick.

"Almost there." John's voice is admirably steady, leading Greg to wonder just how many births took place among the Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers. The Old and Bold, eh. "You're doing fine, Greg, just keep breathing."

'' 'Lock – Sally –"

"Right here," another voice chips in, and Sally somehow coalesces behind the crime scene tape – oh, _clever_, Toby. She's wearing a head cap too, and if Greg's errant sight can be trusted, dusty pink suits her best. "Freak nailed it again, sir – it was Julian, not Marco. He confessed straightaway."

"Did you – ah – pull him in?"

"With all due respect, sir" – Anderson is fairly sweating between his legs, a situation that Greg promises himself will never be renewed, however extended his family turns to be – "now is more about _pushing_".

There is a sudden flare of pain, as if the lower part of his spine had been unzipped with unnecessary force, only to falter and fade out as his ear catches a sound. The sound is not unfamiliar – he's heard it at intervals before, on the silver screen, at family dos, and even once on his webcam, when his favorite cousin moved to Sidney with kith and kin just before her third. But this is entirely fresh, a brand new breath being shaped and chased tentatively in a small mouth, and for one moment, it becomes his breath, his beginnings; a pattern inverted as he commits his life, both their lives, to hers.

Sherlock is silent at his side. Then Greg feels him shift and fidget, and knows, before the pull it takes to move his head, that he's been given their child to hold on the crook of his arm.

"Morgana," Sherlock says quietly.

"Mordag," John corrects, adding for a bemused Donovan: "Scottish for Sea Warrior. And before you or anyone else asks, MorMor is a no-no."

"If there's any justice in this world" – Jesus, even Anderson's voice sounds sweaty – "she should be Metropolita."

But Greg cuts them all, his face tilted aside as he looks at Sherlock's intent, hesitant gaze, and the little face like a smooth furled rose against Sherlock's elbow. "... Miracle."

There is another, enduring silence. Greg lets it encompass everything that's good and great in the scene – down to Sherlock's hand, never letting go, as if their daughter was a new gravitational force and Lestrade a time-honored piece of ballast.

Her sound and their stillness reach out to form his peace. Life has been shared; sleep can become; Greg lets the name usher him into repose, Sherlock's lips silent against his brow.

_[Author's note: in case anyone wonders what the poor kid was called in the end, my headcanon has finally settled for Miranda.]_


	11. The Necklace

_While this fic is innocent enough, it was in fact written to launch a « Not-Porn Porn Challenge » on LiveJournal – i.e., take a kink's name and write a strictly PG-rated fic based on the name._

_(I'm not saying what my own prompt was, but it's easy enough to guess if you know a little about kinks.)_

The Necklace

"There's something," Lestrade said at last, looking into the warm haze of the fire.

He felt before he heard Sherlock's hum of breath still against his thigh and added quickly: "Something I want you to have."

"Oh," Sherlock said, prudent yet not unpleased. He rolled over from Lestrade's lap onto the rug, raising himself on his elbows to meet this new riddle eye to eye. Creature of the night, Lestrade thought with a fond nod at the bygone eighties, letting his eyes loiter with unabashed intent over the sight. For a self-proclaimed spartan, Sherlock fitted his nudity like a glove, and didn't half know it.

"It's not a ring, is it?" the Spartan was asking in almost plaintive tones. "Gold _itches_. I'd have to hang it on a chain, and that's a liability in my line of work. Think of ..."

"Hush" – and Lestrade placed a finger on the buxom underlip. "No, it's not gold. Or new." He fumbled in the shadow for his discarded trousers, carrying on with a nervous swipe at gravity. "Or blue, or borrowed,"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock's voice had gone low.

Lestrade found his gaze and raised it, literally raised it, tilting up Sherlock's chin with a finger while he kept his other hand behind his back. "Borrowed? Nope. No longer, so have another guess."

His to hold and give, even against the odds that time would one day double back again and deal him another pang, another bruised memory, the next day he'd find the little rope and wonder why he, she, hadn't gone the whole sodding symbolic hog and broken it, just broken the damn thing, instead of leaving it coiled at the bottom of his bedside table drawer. His first real gift to Debbie back when they were absolute beginners, and he still on a novice pay, too.

Squeezing it in the hollow of his hand, he'd tried to remember – what had she looked like, receiving his gift? Had she laughed, or gasped? Seen it for the sign it was, the pledge, or only the money gone to waste? He'd laughed, that he remembered, and said "Who waits thirty years these days?", fastening it round her neck. The drawer had jammed in the early morning grey.

"Three years," Lestrade said, pushing the waste to the back of his heart. He stretched his hand open so that Sherlock would see the grain-like pearls shadowed by the flames. Debbie had worn them every night in the first year, under her boiled wool sweaters. "They die if you don't," her words, and even though he'd joked about pearl-clutching, there had been pride and lust in his heart, in their feel against his cheek when he sucked at the soft dip of her throat.

He couldn't have said when she'd begun to take them off for choir practice, and Tai Chi, and swimming, and finally her new tone-up programme, but that was then and now Sherlock was taking them from his hand. The string was too short to let the necklace hang from his neck; rather, the pearls seemed to target it, encircle it, white upon white, a trophy that stayed and gleamed and changed. As Lestrade watched, he saw how they gathered a sharp dew of clarity, drawing the fire to them until they were matching Sherlock's own pellucid eyes – until they breathed the same quiet unquiet light.

Lust and pride no longer covered it.

His hand was being taken and wrapped around the slender neck, Sherlock's hand tightening the clasp until Lestrade could feel the pearls' sleek hardness against his flesh. There was nothing soft here, or bland, no reassurance for a domestic man, nothing that came close to Debbie's promise of yielding milkiness.

But the recent years had been a string of nights tied by loss, and Sherlock's hand was still wrapped over his, pressing it hard enough for the pearls to leave their imprint on both of them.

Three years, the gesture said, until Sherlock lowered their hands onto his lap. He tilted his head all the way back, the string tautening at his neck. And Lestrade felt his own heart tauten in response to the primal sight, the sign, pledge, and the beauty of it, decadent and all-decisive.

He leant forward until his lips touched flesh, and let the fourth year begin.


	12. Aubade

**Prompt **: Spanking

**Rating **: PG-13 (it's quite fluffy and romantic, really)

_Written to launch my own Spanksgiving Fest on LiveJournal. This is a 221B, a text composed of 221 words (if Word's Statistics can be trusted). The final word begins with a b. _

**Aubade**

In the winter, when dawn breaks late and mild, it finds them undercover – a lazy sum of one, duveted and close.

Lestrade wakes when Sherlock is still a long way from deducing eyelids. Good sleep leaves him more tender; more slack to roll over in the narrow bed (bought in a fit of pique after she got custody of the faux Frenchy Super King, and the sofa, _and_ the 60's records) and tell rest and Greg apart.

Lestrade loves him for it, gives him a break. Then, when eleven strikes a remembrance of eggs past, a hand. Slow fingertips, loitering on the back of Sherlock's neck, down the runnel of his back, blossoming into a firmer touch when Lestrade reaches further down, then up again.

He lifts his hand and drops it on Sherlock's tenderhearted bottom. A ripple of pats along curves, thighs and the coveted secret crack, putting the minimum leverage to warm use. Soon, Sherlock is moaning himself alert and Lestrade is smiling against his ear.

He begins to quiz Sherlock, varying the pitch and pattern of spanks according to answers. Sherlock thinks context and goes for cheeky, but Lestrade holds back until "Who was Eleanor Roosevelt?". Then the duvet takes a plunge and Lestrade's hand flails up and down to Sherlock's delighted squeals.

"...Song by the Beat-les?"


	13. Sherstrade du jour (Valentine)

**Sherstrade du jour**

**Prompt **: Valentine

**Rating **: PG for silliness

Roses are red,

Your scarf is blue,

Will you bloody well put it on, you blockhead,

Before you go down with the flu.

_Lestrade, your sense of metrics is horrendous. SH_

You mean Met-ricious, right?

_That was meretricious, you Beotian. And no, I don't. SH_

Very well, then.

_Lestrade? SH_

_Greg? SH_

_You're not going to spend the whole evening talking to Anderson, are you? SH_

_Anderson doesn't have a scarf. SH_

_Anderson would have to ask a Boy Scout how to knot a scarf. SH_

_If you're trading Met puns with Anderson, you'll be solving your next thirty or forty cases on your own. SH_

_Oh, for God's sake._

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_I can't believe you_

_Have just made me type out a truism that tepid. Sherlock_

Love you too, kid. Wanna try the Morgue cafet later?

_"Met" you in ten, Detective Inspector. SH_


	14. Of Greys and Griefs

_Written for Deathstrade Day on Tumblr : warning for major character's death._

**Prompt **: Sherlock returns to Baker Street after three years and everything is going fine. Sherlock wants to get back into case-work, and so asks John to take him to see Lestrade. John takes him to the grave next to Sherlock's.

**Rating **: PG

Of Greys and Griefs

Whoever chose the stone made a wretched job of it. It's flat, dull-edged, and, to Sherlock's eyes, a disgracing shade of grey. Sherlock's eyes are their quiet pellucid selves as they stare at Lestrade's name on the grey.

"Look," says the man at his side with a quick dart of tongue over lips. "It's not what you think."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking."

"No, I mean, look. It wasn't the killer, your trick did it all right. It was an accident."

"Or that's one name for it. No. I won't let you sedate me with lies."

"Sherlock." John's voice is calm, but Sherlock can hear the crack in it, the preliminary beat of warning.

"Six weeks," he says combatively. "Only six weeks to wait, and at the end, what? A job back, to start with. A press ola, a revenge, a return, a, a _crowning_. Everything, I was going to set everything right. Was that so hard, waiting for me?"

"Not half hard," the answer lashes back, and Sherlock has to close his mouth. Instead he concentrates on turning his head and, harder and farther than he has ever pulled in his previous life, observing. It could be the moon (it was late in the day when John flagged them a cab) that has turned his friend's hair ashen and his shoes unglistening, or it could be the wait. Sherlock thinks.

"A heart attack, then. Street accident?"

"Car crash. The M5 exit to Bristol." Sherlock waits, willing more to come. "Do you see? Not your fault, Sherlock."

"I know."

"No, you're not seeing. Not your, never, never your fault. Not then, not before. Never, love."

"I know! I know!"

"_Sherlock_." John's voice rips at him across his cry. "Who are you talking to?"

But - "never," Sherlock whispers, and as the air clears before the stone, and the graveyard once more stretches before him, something has changed. He doesn't notice it directly, because John has whirled around and is holding him tight enough to tug his chin downward, but then the moon is back and makes it possible to see.

The grave is silvering.


End file.
